


Fear and Stimulus

by inthemouthofthewolf



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Begins (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Breathplay, Fear, Fear Play, M/M, Non Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Torture, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychology, Psychotropic Drugs, Rape/Non-con Elements, Strangulation, The Author Regrets Nothing, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:50:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthemouthofthewolf/pseuds/inthemouthofthewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry Knight is a dangerous, insane man. Soon after the incident in Dartmoor, Mr. Knight is sent to Arkham Asylum -and/or- In which Sherlock Holmes and John Watson investigate a psychiatrist who is very possibly more deranged than his patients.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drool on the Wall

He was dying, but this was good. That was good, wasn’t it?  
Only an instant ago he was in the hollow, echoing the gun barrel between his teeth, something deadly and cold locked in a void of primal fear.  
The hollow and I are one, Henry realized, and wept bitterly because suddenly it was he who had killed his dad.

He hadn’t access to anything with which to slash his wrists—he was making up for it with a few weeks’ growth of a bit more beard than stubble; it was always surprising for the man who had been kept a child. His hands suddenly seemed freakishly huge to him, and he reeled back from his all-fours position with a strangled cry, only now realizing there was someone else here with him. He was momentarily stunned into a silence that overwhelmed his instinct to whimper. He cowered back in a corner he was just beginning to become consciously aware of.

“Who are you?” He tried to ask, but everything felt heavy and slow. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he blinked, swaying from where he sat—getting vertigo just from the distance between his eyes and his tailbone supported by the soft padding of the floor. “Dying” Henry choked out, slipping to the side, but being caught by the wall that made up the other half of the corner. He let his face sink against it, let the wall hold him up. His face felt wet and hot. Blood? In a sudden fit he tried to claw desperately at his face—suddenly itchy and flaky and he could see the deep crimson turning darker—but his limbs got tangled up in each other and were so, so tired. They dropped back by his sides uselessly as his face got wetter. Tears. He snuffled and began to cry more heartily once he realized this—drool slipped down his chin and made a sluggish path down the wall.

“You’re not dying; it’s only the medicine.” The man said calmly, “You don’t remember me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement, professional, yet cold and piercing like those bright blue eyes. Henry shook his head as franticly as he could manage, but still only very slightly, very weakly. Henry’s eyes burned with fear. He didn’t remember this man, true, but still he was terrified.

“You’ve been here for three weeks, now. This was our sixth session.” A lie. If asked, the man would have said he was testing the patient, judging the patient’s perception of reality, in this instance time, but he did so like to watch his patients squirm, especially the new ones. Henry’s intake was only a few hours ago, something neither of them had been fully present for, only Henry’s trembling body and the man’s powerful influence without corporeal form.

At Henry’s uncomprehending, wild stare, the man introduced himself as if to help out, “I’m Dr.Crane.” Nothing was further from the true intent.

"Let's begin, shall we?"


	2. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John receive an unusual letter.

“Have you ever been to Gotham city, Mr.Holmes?” Besides that, the letter was largely unreadable—disjointed scribbles mostly. Even though Henry Knight was in a hurry, and already driven mad with fear, he still tended to wax on about things of little significance. As a result, Sherlock didn’t waste his time trying to decipher the entirety of Henry’s scrawl; he’d gathered all he needed from the very few legible scraps.

“What’s that?” John nodded a head towards the letter.

“Nothing. This is just stupid.” Sherlock answered briskly, crumpling it up and tossing it towards the nearest wastebasket before slouching back in his chair in oncoming ennui.

“Hang on—who’s it even from?” Nobody writes /letters/, anymore. Well, nobody besides John’s grandmother. John stooped to pick the letter up, smoothed over the crumpled edges. “Crayon?” John questioned, paused, accidentally smearing the wax a bit, and then—

“If you’re going to ask if this is about Henry Knight, you’re correct.” Sherlock rumbled, already bored.

“I wasn’t going to ask that.” John answered somewhat defensively.

“Because you knew already? Good.”

“No, because I didn’t get a good look at the letter. You sure it’s from him?” John asked before he could stop himself. He winced mentally, preparing himself for the oncoming deluge of—

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, barely managing to keep his disdain in check, though it wasn’t malicious. It had taken John some time to realize that there was no ill will affixed to the consulting detective’s impatience. It would be a waste of time, for one, and feelings are only a liability—or so John was sure Sherlock would say if asked. Mycroft would probably say something similar.

“Not obvious to me.” John kept himself from rolling his eyes despite his curiosity and usual boundless admiration. Sherlock was giving him the _look_. Here we go...

“Telltale opening sentence—eerily similar to something he himself said at our flat, remember?” Sherlock skipped the “you’re an idiot” preamble altogether and went straight for the explanation, something he lately tended to only consciously do for John. “The rest of it is disjointed—it’s written in crayon, yes, but these aren’t the bumbling words of a child—this is a man trapped in the throes of irrational fear who was either made to remain a child or who has regressed considerably. The former is more likely.”

“Regressed? You mean…?”

“Regression: an exhibition or otherwise return to more childlike behaviour as a result of acute psychological stress.” Sherlock said, lip curling upward in distaste at the thought. Before John could ask any more questions, Sherlock continued, “He’s at Arkham Asylum in Gotham City. You can tell by the small watermark at the upper right hand corner of the paper; can you see it? It’s a bit smudged over by crayon, but visible enough. Obviously hospital stationary—probably belonging to one of the staff, then, so this letter was likely smuggled out by a sympathizing nurse or social worker (not doctor because whoever owned this paper was not important or influential enough for the paper to bear their name) -- those places don’t tend to allow communication to the outside, certainly not secure places like Arkham.”

“So, Henry’s in trouble, then?” John asked. Sherlock frowned at John’s concerned expression.

“No, that’s unlikely.” Sherlock said, hesitating slightly, “Henry Knight, as we saw for ourselves, is paranoid and hardly, if ever, in what could be considered his right mind. Any trouble that he claims is likely imagined—for instance, paragraph three, first sentence. It’s about his psychiatrist, who according to Henry, is out to get him.”

“Unlikely, you said?” John asked to which Sherlock nodded, “So it is possible, then? That’s he’s in trouble, I mean.”

“Certainly it’s possible; places like these have a sinister reputation, generally for good reason. As a doctor, this shouldn’t be news to you.”

“Sherlock, we have to go check on him and make sure he’s okay.” John said as evenly as he could manage, since part of him was being consumed with impatience at his flatmate’s lack of empathy.

“There you go again, John, with your sentiment and misplaced sense of obligation…” Sherlock drawled, but at John’s incensed expression, startled up out of his boredom with an irritated sigh and a “What for?”

“Because—“ John began, “Here, I’ll put it this way: If it weren’t for us, Henry probably wouldn’t even be in the hospital at all—“

“He would have ended up in one eventually” Sherlock interrupted an argument.

“He’s going to be in there for a very long time, Sherlock. We owe it to him to make sure there’s nothing worse happening to him in a place where he’s supposed to be getting better!” John was running out of patience, “You don’t have a case! Do you really have anything better to do? What if Henry’s psychiatrist really is what Henry says he is?”

“—Unlikely.” Sherlock was slowly fading back into boredom.

“—But my point is that we can’t take that chance!” John finished. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, sighing and reaching out a long arm for his violin.

“You don’t want to go? Fine. I’m going, then. Not sure how much I can figure out on my own, but...” John swept from the room to quickly pack, “You’ll get along alright without me, won’t you?” He’d had to be mostly gone from the room for that to work—or else Sherlock would have heard the barely concealed mix of sarcasm and mirth. No, Sherlock Holmes bloody well would not get along fine without at worst, his blogger, at best, his closest friend-maybe-more, John Hamish Watson.

Almost on cue, Sherlock was scrambling to his feet, alarmed, shouting “John!” and rushing to follow. And Sherlock Holmes says he’s not predictable, John mused, smiling to himself as he filled the open suitcase on his bed.


End file.
